


Boys on bicycles

by DeVereWinterton



Series: Miss Fisher's Year of Quotes 2018 [5]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Bicycles, F/M, Forests, Jack in biker shorts, MFMM Year of Quotes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Salacious Shakespeare, Smut, Woodcocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Post-canon. Only two days ago, Phryne Fisher arrived back home in summery Melbourne, welcomed by her friends and family, ready for a reunion with Jack. The only thing she wants, more than anything, is to invite him over for dinner. Problem is; Jack is nowhere to be found. But never one to sulk, she decides to go out for a nice ride outside the city. Jack will turn up eventually, surely?





	Boys on bicycles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scruggzi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/gifts).



> I wrote this for the awesome [Scruggzi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi%20), who wanted Jack in short shorts (don’t we all?) and who even volunteered to beta her own gift-fic. 
> 
> Also, bicycles.
> 
> It inadvertently also works with one of the quotes for the MFMM Year of Quotes: June - The power of the feminine.  
>  _Flirting is a woman’s trade, one must keep in practice – Becoming Jane_

 

The sun was beating down on her ivory skin, but for once, Phryne did not mind the risk of sunburn on her bare shoulders, or the possibility of acquiring a tan, thereby ruining her fair complexion. The English weather had been dull, grey, and drab, and she cherished every single ray of welcome sunshine.

The wind was blowing in her face and messed up her otherwise immaculate hairdo. She had forgone her usual driver’s hat and coat due to the oppressive heat, and as she drove her Hispano-Suiza at high speed, top down, towards the east of Melbourne in the direction of the Dandenongs, she felt the lush greenery brightening her already high spirits.

She loved the freedom driving a car gave her. It made her feel strong, independent, and she squealed in utter delight when the engine roared as she stepped on the gas, driving the Hispano flat out on the deserted roads leading into the low mountains.

If only Jack could see her now.

 

***

 

She had arrived back home in Melbourne the day before yesterday. Dusk had fallen by the time she’d finally touched her plane down on Australian soil. Mr. Butler had cooked her a hearty meal at Wardlow, and after firm hugs from both Jane and Dot – who had been informed of her return by Mr. Butler via telephone and had almost dropped everything in her haste to get there – she had tucked herself into bed and slept through most of the next day.

Three months. She had been away for almost _three months_. And even though some things had changed in her absence – Dot now lived with Hugh and they were expecting their first child, Jane had cut her hair in a style similar to Phryne’s and Mr. Butler somehow was an even better cook than she remembered – a lot of things had remained the same.

Her feelings for Jack were definitely among those things.

They had written to one another in her absence, and she smiled fondly as she remembered some of his letters. He had been unable to come to England; the responsibilities that came with his job too great, the distance too far. And, to be fair, the terms between them perhaps still too unclear, uncertain. Although disappointed, she understood and had initiated a chain of mail that had often left her breathless.

What had started out as a fairly innocent exchange of daily occurrences had surprisingly quickly turned into something of a far less virtuous nature. She told him police officers in London were not quite the same as the ones at home. He told her his investigations were running quite smoothly without her incessant meddling (and _why_ was she in the presence of the London police?). She chastised him for that comment and stated she could imagine things to run _very smoothly_ between them upon her return, indeed.

He had only sent her one single quote from Shakespeare as a response.

_‘Smooth runs the water where the brook runs deep.’_

Even though that one sentence may have seemed demure and not very affectionate, she had always been good at reading between the lines. It was so meaningful, sensual and _oh_ so very Jack and she had pleasured herself at night to the thought of his deep timbre, huskily quoting the words, the beginnings of an absolutely filthy promise on the tip of his tongue as it licked her ear.

She had only sent him one single quote from Shakespeare as a response.

_‘Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,  
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.’_

That had been less than a month ago, after which she’d notified him via telegram of her return home.

 

***

 

She’d driven down to City South first thing this morning, to find Hugh Collins beaming at her, – pride and happiness personified, married and soon to be a dad – informing her the Inspector had taken the day off and would be back tomorrow morning, and could he take a message?

She had made a comment on how he seemed even taller this time – to which he puffed up even more, _dear Hugh_ – and thanked him, but no thanks. She had been wanting to invite Jack over for a late night dinner. Then drinks.

And then dessert.

She figured it was probably for the best to deliver that particular invitation to him in person.

Not finding him at his Richmond home either, she had felt a slight pang of disappointment. But never one to pine or brood (she would leave that to Jack), she had decided to take the Hispano out for a ride, mindful not to waste such a lovely sunny day.

 

***

 

The paved streets had long since given way to dusty dirt roads, and here the vegetation became more dense, lushly growing on either side of the road. The foliage overhead allowed for a bit of shade, but not much.

She spotted something up ahead, and as she came closer she realised it was a lone cyclist, forcing her to slow down as the road was narrow. His presence irked her; she did not enjoy slowing down, not ever, not for anyone.

She was closing in on him now, and there was no way she could pass him without forcing the Hispano into the ditch on the right side of the road. As she contemplated her options, she took a closer look at the cyclist.

His skin was tanned, broad shoulders peeking out from under a tight white singlet that had become transparent in places due to perspiration, tapering into a narrow waist. He wore black biker shorts, rolled up at the hems and exposing very nice, muscular thighs and calves. Phryne thought he must be an avid cyclist for him to have legs that looked like _that_. Soft leather shoes, which she supposed were nice and lightweight, and would probably provide great traction on the pedals, complemented the ensemble.

Leaning forward on the handlebars, the cyclist braced himself against the elements. He was the image of power, exuding a natural force. A veritable Icarus as he pedalled towards the sun.

But what really drew her attention was the way those gluteal muscles moved as he sat, almost perched on that narrow saddle, the muscles clenching and unclenching.

She could feel her most intimate inner muscles echoing the sentiments.

He really had the most toned set of buttocks she had ever seen on a man.

Granted, this development was not at all bad, but she really wanted to get a move on. She was about to honk the horn when she realised something.

She _knew_ those toned buttocks.

She had _seen_ those toned buttocks on a beach in Queenscliff, about a year ago. Yes, they had been covered by a black bathing suit, but there was no mistaking them.

She was staring at Jack Robinson’s arse. And not for the first time, mind you.

She remembered him telling her about how he sold his Uncle Ted’s coin collection at the age of twelve to buy his first bicycle, and how he had wanted to ride the Tour the France, but had been unable to because the war had broken out.

She supposed he was making up for lost time.

Struck by these realisations, and distracted by both her musings and the fact that Jack was _right there_ , the car suddenly swerved to the left in a brief moment of inattentiveness, catching Jack off-guard and forcing him into what she hoped was the soft verge on the side of the road.

She stepped on the brake immediately and the car came to a screeching halt. She looked over her left shoulder and saw nothing. Alarmed, she almost jumped out of the Hispano, her lavender-coloured sundress floating around her legs, her matching strappy sandals and painted toenails getting covered in dust.

Walking around the vehicle, she noticed his bike on the side of the road. She recognised it as the 1925 forest green Automoto, a French racer bike he had once proudly told her about during their late night drinks. It appeared to be okay, no damage done as far as she could tell.

She found Jack a little further to the side, propped up against the trunk of a large tree.

He was sitting on that magnificent bum, knees bent and supporting himself on his hands as he looked up at her in irritation, his eyes slitted as he peered into the sun, his curly hair in complete disarray. He was about to get to his feet to no doubt start yelling when he realised who was staring down at him.

“And here I was, thinking men were supposed to sweep _you_ off of your feet, Miss Fisher. Not the other way around,” he said, and his voice sent a shiver of pleasure through her body.

 _Darling Jack_... Gods, she had missed him dearly.

“Don’t be silly, Jack. I’m a modern woman, I am allowed as much sweeping as any man,” she stated archly as she smoothed down her hair.

“Sweeping, yes, not running me into a ditch.”

“Well, at least you ride that bicycle faster than a milk cart. You could have easily escaped... You _are_ quite good, you know.”

“Which is more than what could be said of your driving, Miss Fisher,” he grumbled.

She hitched up her dress to her naked thighs and kneeled on the soft grass at his feet, slapping his bare knee in good humour and ignoring his quiet scoff at her complete disregard of propriety.

“My driving is _excellent_ , Inspector. I was merely distracted by the wonderful scenery.”

Her heavy implication hung between them like a brightly lit sign. Jack coughed but otherwise remained silent.

“Now then, sit back, Jack,” she said, as she motioned for him to relax against the tree.

“Whatever for, Miss Fisher?”

“I need to check you for injuries, of course,” she stated as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

He seemed alarmed and made to get up, but she forcefully pressed down on his knees as she sat up on hers, and raised her eyebrow at him in mock challenge.

“Go on then, do your worst,” he muttered, although she could see the way his body relaxed visibly, and she noticed the twinkle that appeared in his eye.

She had a feeling he was seeing straight through her ruse, yet he had apparently decided to indulge her (and himself, as well). This was promising. She could work with this.  
 

***

 

She took her time assessing the damage, starting by checking his pulse (followed by a dramatic eyeroll from Jack). Pleased with the result, she then moved on to check for any physical injuries. Still on her knees at his feet, she checked those first to discover he was quite ticklish, for which he admonished her by threatening to kick her. She pinched his calf as a reprimand.

Sliding her hands up his calves, she noted a change in his usually steady breathing as she caressed the strong muscles she discovered there, tracing the tendons with her fingertips.

_Good._

Passing his knees, she sat up and leaned forward to check his bare upper legs, noticing a very small scratch on his right thigh. She deliberately presented him with a rather excellent view of her décolletage, the V-shaped neckline plunging to allow for a decent amount of her bosom to be on display.

A display he took great advantage of, not hiding the fact that he’d been looking at her breasts when she caught him staring, merely raising his eyebrow right back at her, _the smug bastard_.

She let her thumb graze over the scratch as a minor admonishment, although his heated gaze on her chest had caused for her own breathing to quicken.

He suddenly placed his palm on top of hers, stilling her nervous motions. His thumb stroked her wrist, and she looked up.

“I didn’t know you had returned,” he spoke softly, and when his eyes met hers her breath caught in her throat, the emotions swirling in those blue depths mirroring her own.

“Surprise!” she offered weakly in an attempt to lighten the mood, and missed the mark by six miles.

He just looked at her _like_ _that_ , as though he knew exactly what was on her mind, and she felt her insides turn to liquid. Hot, burning liquid.

“Well, it’s good to know you have been keeping yourself busy, Jack,” she said in an attempt to cover for her fumbling, nodding in the direction of his bike.

“Yes, it is a great way to relieve certain... tensions.”

“Oh yes, I can certainly see the advantages of riding every once in a while.”

The double entendre was not lost on either one of them.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, and he parted them willingly, but her attention was drawn to his chest. The singlet was almost transparent, his nipples distended, dark circles beneath the white cotton that were begging for her to take them into her mouth.

She could feel the tension building between them, and as her gaze dropped to his crotch, she could only come to one conclusion;

_My, those shorts really are tight, aren’t they?_

She licked her lips before turning her eyes skyward.

“Oh, Jack, look! Isn’t that a woodcock? Up there, in the tree!” She suddenly pointed enthusiastically at another tree behind him.

Jack, although mortified, did not even turn his head. Instead, his eyes met hers.

“I don’t think woodcocks regularly take to the trees, Miss Fisher. Besides, they do not live around these parts,” he rumbled.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Inspector. They could... _pop up_ when you least expect them to,” she all but purred, giving him a pointed look.

He gave her a look in return that said he knew that she knew he was hard, and that he wanted her to know.

It thrilled her immensely.

 

***

 

“Well then, Nurse Fisher, as you have given me the all clear, I must be on my way,” he declared as he got to his feet, brushing his large hands on his shorts before offering one to help her up. She took it and shivered as her hand touched his, before she reluctantly let go.

She looked at him and realised he was waiting for her to say something. He wasn’t _actually_ leaving, he was just giving her the opportunity to contradict him, to come up with a reason why he should stay, or to leave him, if she so desired.

“Oh dear! I’m afraid I’ve been terribly remiss in my assessment of your condition, Inspector.”  
  
For a second, she saw genuine worry flicker in his eyes, before they softened and then darkened. He recognised her little game for what it was and welcomed it.  
  
_How delightful!_  
  
“You have? That was terribly careless of you, Miss Fisher. Now, what seems to be the problem?”  
  
Jack was absolutely delectable when playful, and she decided to make it her mission to lure him out to come and play far more often.  
  
“There appears to be a swelling of some kind, developing in one of the lower extremities.”  
  
To his credit, Jack only blushed bright red to the tips of his ears.  
  
“Really?” he rasped. “And what, pray tell, would be the cure for that particular infliction, Miss Fisher?”  
  
“Oh, I can think of so many things, Jack. All of these options available to me, I can’t even see the wood for the trees.”  
  
He smiled, that secret Jack Robinson half-smile that tugged at the one corner of his mouth, and her belly somersaulted. She had missed him so much.  
  
“‘ _Wood feeds the fire which burns it_ ’,” he quoted, his voice hoarse.  
  
“Shakespeare?”  
  
“Da Vinci.”  
  
“Do you fear the all-consuming fire, Jack?” she challenged him.  
  
She stepped closer to him until her pebbled nipples grazed his chest, his heat scorching her skin, and she took great satisfaction in the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“I believe I can take the heat, Miss Fisher.” His voice was low and rough, but his eyes flared up at the sound of her challenge.  
  
“Good, because I’m feeling positively inflamed,” she breathed against his lips as his hands found purchase on her hips.  
  
He kissed her, and all witty banter flew from her mind. His kiss was just so _different_ , and just so _Jack_ it made her head spin. He was passionate, yes, but the way he pushed his tongue inside of her mouth was not only endearing in its impatience, it was almost demanding as well. He was unrestrained, but meticulous. Inquisitive, as though he was trying to learn more about her through kissing her, as though she were an intricate lock he was trying to decipher with his tongue.  
  
She was sorely tempted to show him the right combination, but he was a detective, and she looked forward to his thorough investigation in order to uncover it.  
  
He had her pinned against the other side of the tree and out of plain sight before she even realised it, the bark smooth although somewhat unpleasant against her back. However, the discomfort she felt was overruled by the pleasure he was igniting within her. Her dress would be ruined by the time they were done, and she relished in it. She wanted him to ruin her dress, and for the first time she did not mind the fact that he had probably ruined her for any other man.

She cradled his head to her breast as he suckled on her nipple through the light material of her dress, clutching at his broad back with her other hand. She wrapped one leg around his waist, then hopped as he pushed her up against the tree, so she could wrap her other leg around his hip as well. Grinding her crotch against the firm ridges of his cock, she delighted in the anguished groan the movement tore from his throat.

They did not speak, they didn’t need to, not when their mutual need was too great to convey with words.

He only breathed her name once, reminiscent of a prayer as he pulled her underwear to the side and sheathed himself in one thrust, holding still for only a brief second before he started to move inside of her, taking her as deeply as he could.

It felt so good, and so _right_ , and she did not want him to ever leave her body as he brought her to great heights at a frantic pace, his cock insistently rubbing against her clit, driving her absolutely mad. He was panting in her ear, sweating on her skin and taking her with all of his might and she was nearly delusional with desire, higher and higher, faster and _oh God yes, Jack_! The bark was scratching her back and ripping up her dress but she did not care. She would happily be considered ‘hysterical’ if it meant she could have Jack Robinson between her thighs until the end of times.

When she felt she would go absolutely insane from wanting him, from wanting all of this, and never wanting it to end, Jack let out a roar and snapped his hips taut against her, before pulling out at the last possible moment. His desperate cry sent her over the edge and she blissfully tumbled into the abyss, floating weightlessly, knowing he would be there to catch her.

He was murmuring nonsense and sweet nothings in her ear when she came back down.

She unclasped her ankles and let her feet drop from his waist to the forest floor. Her knees buckled and he crushed her body to his, holding her upright, his wet, spent cock still half hard between them from where he had spilled against her thigh, and pressing against her belly. His biker shorts were around his ankles. For some reason, the sight warmed her heart.

He kissed her softly, gently. It was not a kiss born out of lust but out of quiet reassurance; he was not going anywhere, they had all the time in the world. He loved her.

She felt his smile against her lips, and she returned it.  
  
“Well, Jack,” she panted, “you can take me for a ride any time you feel like it.”  
  
A resounding _smack_ and deep barks of laughter could be heard, resonating through the trees.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I researched both bicycle history and biking attire from around the 1920’s/1930’s. Inspiration for both Jack’s bike and outfit can be found below:
> 
> Jack’s [bike](http://www.theracingbicycle.com/images/Automoto_full.jpg)
> 
> Jack’s outfit:  
> [shirt ](http://www.newenglandhistoricalsociety.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/major-taylor-HALFTONE-CORRECTED-med.jpg)  
> [shorts ](http://www.theracingbicycle.com/images/six_days.jpg)


End file.
